—by Robert Desnos
I have dreamt so much of you
that you lose your reality.
Is there still time to touch that living body
& to kiss on its mouth the birth
of the voice that is so dear to me?
I have dreamt so much of you
that my arms, grown accustomed to crossing
each other on my chest as I embrace
your shadow, might perhaps be unable
to hold & enfold your body;
&, confronted with the actual presence
of that which haunts me & has
ruled me for days, for years,
I would, without doubt, become a shadow.
O sentimental scales in which we balance.
I have dreamt so much of you that it must
be past the time for me to wake.
Though standing / I am asleep, my body
open to all appearances of life & love; &
you, the only one who matters to me today —
I am less likely to touch your face & lips
than the first lips & face that come along.
I have dreamt so much of you
walked so much, talked, slept with your ghost
that there only remains to me perhaps, for
all that, to be ghost amongst the
ghosts & shadow a hundred times more
than the shadow which walks & will
walk gaily on the sundial of your life.
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